


All Of Me Wants All Of You

by th_esaurus



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Id Fic, M/M, POV First Person, Rimming, Size Kink, vore ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 08:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11755881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: “Too much?” he said, stopping.Of course it was too much. I wanted it desperately.





	All Of Me Wants All Of You

**Author's Note:**

> elio is the ultimate conduit for all my worst id fic.

I wanted as much of him inside me as I could get; that was the crux of it. I wanted to devour him like Saturn ate his children, and gently hush him in my stomach, begging him not to fight. 

I suspected he might wryly veto such a suggestion, and so I had prepared an alternative.

I could be ever so pleased with my own cleverness, as a boy.

I took him to an orange grove, owned privately for years by a friend of my mother, the trees in neat rows, or at least as neat as anything could be in Italy. It was secluded, shaded by a slight upward incline on all four sides, and the fruit was not yet ripe enough that hired hands had come in to pluck it and pack it; it was ours to laze in as we wished. 

He had brought a very dry book with him, and insisted on reading excerpts to me as we lay in the long grass. I rested my head on his lap, looking down the long stretch of his legs as though they were a forked path that merged together where his ankles crossed. He had taken off his sandals; even at this angle his feet seemed over-large. 

I was, in truth, after Oliver, a subscriber to the belief that bigger feet signalled a bigger cock. He was no exception to that rule.

His voice was low and amused as he narrated his book. We took the dullest sentences and turned them into petty poetry, swapping limericks about ailing academia. He asked me to translate certain words into Italian, though his mastery of the language was quite good and I accused him of laziness. “My publisher says the same,” he chuckled.

“Does your publisher suck your cock too?” I asked. I was feeling spry. I would have him inside me before the siesta; it was my challenge to myself.

“Feisty today, are we?” he replied, tit for tat. There was no surprising him now. He knew how I felt at all hours. This had stung me, at first: I thought I was an unfinished novel. How could he know the cadence of my prose if I did not even know it myself? But I was not as closed as I would have liked. He told me I had see-through eyes, once. I liked how awful and ethereal it sounded, but he just meant my thoughts were too easy to read.

He lapsed into comfortable silence. He must have found something interesting at last. His fingers carded slowly through my hair, his nails dragging against my scalp in a way I felt in my heels and toes. The pad of his thumb brushed my ear, and traced all around it: auricle, lobe, pinna. When he pressed against it, and I closed my eyes, and it seemed like we were transported to the sea. Not the pleasant coastline of B. but the roiling ocean, a churning abyss full of ancient sailors and lovelorn suicides. 

It was only my blood, my heartbeat. Were my innards so violent? 

I certainly harboured violent thoughts towards Oliver; or perhaps towards myself, that I wanted inflicted only by his hand.

“Put your fingers inside me,” I murmured.

He looked up from his book sharply, but he was already smiling. “Here?”

“Where else? Yes, here.”

There was no-one around, of course. Even the farmhouse was half a mile away. He glanced around to double-check but I was right, and smug about it. 

I turned my head and nuzzled in towards his crotch.

“Which is it?” he asked, amused. He thought me insatiable, but rose to every occasion. 

“Both,” I begged.

He put his book to the side, and managed to seem gracious about it.

He took a long time wetting his fingers in his mouth, and so I forced myself to take just as long unbuttoning his shorts. We did not even need to adjust our position. It was perfect. He simply slipped his slick fingers under my waistband while I took his cock between my lips. I always moaned when I did it, and could scarcely summon any embarrassment. In the week or so since we had first fucked, there seemed a vast chasm between then and now. Why waste energy on anxiety about it, when I could savour it for love-making?

(I was so foolish to think myself in control of my own emotions, from time to time.)

He had taught me to grip my thumb in my fist and squeeze, the better to take his cock down without gagging. “And who taught  _ you? _ ” I demanded at the time. 

He’d only rolled his eyes.

He could bury his nose in my pubic hair. I was not yet as skilled as all that. I had never done it before when he was distracting me, and he graciously let me suck him fully hard and build a rhythm before the two fingers encircling my ass delved in. Any careful planning was immediately wrecked. I cried out around his cock. 

“Too much?” he said, stopping.

Of course it was too much. I wanted it desperately. “I’ve never asked you to stop,” I panted.

“No,” he murmured. His concern was touching, and wildly misplaced.

“Fuck me, will you please?” I said, gasping. 

“Well,” he said, as if he meant:  _ and how could I refuse? _

He felt thick and steady inside me, a warming pulse that curled and dragged through me at pleasingly regular intervals. I was reduced to kittenish licks around the head of his cock, my own hips trying to find some purchase on the grass. We would have looked a sight if anyone stumbled across us, sweating and open-mouthed, precise in our pleasure, as hedonistic as an orgy even with just the two of us. 

“Another,” I begged, like some little demi-god demanding to be sated. 

“Elio,” he chided me. His third finger seemed tempted against his will.

“Another,” I said again. I did not claim I could take it. In truth I thought my undertrained body would collapse under the strain of it, that he would rip me in two: but to die by his hand in such a state would surely have been worth it? I could think of no alternative.

Of course my plan was to swallow his entire fist inside my body, even up to the wrist. I craved it like a drowning man craves the sudden feeling of sand between his toes as he kicks down: desperately. 

“You’re too dry.” He was making excuses and I had no time for it.

There was lubricant in my bag, an innocuous tin of Vaseline. I told him so.

He was shocked into silence for a second. “You’re oversexed,” Oliver said, surprised by my forward planning. As though we did not fuck at every opportunity available to us. I almost rolled my eyes.

We parted briefly while he fetched my bag. He never fumbled for anything, and I envied him that. His cock was wet with my spit and hanging out of his shorts and this turned me on inordinately: perhaps I was wrong, and his hand would not be enough. Perhaps I needed the vivid, living warmth of his cock inside me. Perhaps both: could he fit three fingers in alongside it? Masturbate himself in my own body?

I felt delirious. I wanted to grab one of the oranges and shove it into my mouth like a roasted pig, laid out for him, only him, only Oliver.

When he crawled back to me, I draped myself along his legs, pulling my shorts down in earnest, embracing his calves, my cheek laid on his prickly ankles, my ass thrust toward him. “Are you in heat?” he asked flatly. I wished I were so feral.

I could hear the squelch of the vaseline as he coated his fingers. It disgusted me. I adored it.

And then he hesitated. What was wrong? Was he, too, disgusted, and unable to revel in it? Panic gripped me so quickly. He always knew what he wanted, even if he denied himself of it. Oliver was the most genuine person I knew, though it had taken weeks of obfuscation to figure it out. I was presenting myself to him, asking for it bluntly instead of in the usual riddles: did  _ I  _ disgust him?

Behind me, Oliver hummed. “No,” he murmured.

And instead of settling his fingers back inside, I felt his tongue against me. 

I groaned. I groaned with the same cadence as the Earth vibrates. He seemed to chuckle behind me, and I wanted to damn him to hell. He had condemned us both with something so base as this. And then his tongue pressed deeper, and I absolved him instantly of all his sins. We were heaven-bound.

I clamped my mouth around the skin near his ankle, just for buoyancy.

His tongue was far more short and blunt than his fingers, but I felt like if he tried hard enough, he could lick the ventricles of my heart.

He was wily, and did not let his lube-slicked fingers go to waste. They sought out my cock, pulled it back between my legs. His tongue slipped down, sucked on my testicles in turn, all the way into his mouth; he lathed the base of my cock, gathered the rest of its length inside his fisted hand and stroked hard.

I was crying, by this point, my tears rolling down the jut of his ankle bone. I always cried when we fucked, even if it was languid and slow. I thought myself immune to being overwhelmed by him every time we started up, and every time it crashed, wave-like, upon the very shore of me. My tears were a way of telling him that I loved him. 

(I never did, by the way, tell him aloud that I was in love with him. How funny to look back on it and realise.)

I came trembling and violent on the tip of his tongue, like a forgotten word. As I was shaking through my orgasm, he put his fingers back inside me to coax all of it out; three fingers at last. I got my semen on his legs and did not care, did not care, I could not care about anything. I felt as a bathtub must when someone too large clambers inside and spills water over every side: his fingers were forcing my semen out of me. 

I could do nothing afterwards except lie atop him. I must have looked ruinous. I hoped my ass was bruised, and hated myself for the thought.

He sweetly rolled me onto the grass and let me catch my breath. Lay beside me and pressed his forehead against the side of my temple. He was masturbating, and I was glad. I was so glad. I was not Saturn, but Krishna, and if he chanced to crawl inside me, he might find the whole universe there, meaning and all. 

“Are you okay?” He breathed.

“I wanted your fist in me,” I admitted.

“You idiot,” he huffed. He was close.

He came on my thigh. A little higher up than I had marked him, but the same limb. I enjoyed the symmetry of it. It felt clever somehow, fore-planned. 

“Next time,” was all I said, unbearably happy. 


End file.
